


Whatevership

by WeAreTheCyclones



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, sweatpants dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 13:12:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3174624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeAreTheCyclones/pseuds/WeAreTheCyclones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What does this mean?” Stiles asks, sliding his phone across the counter toward Scott.</p><p>Scott doesn’t pause in shoveling cereal in his mouth as he picks the phone up and studies it. “He wants you to stay over tonight,” Scott translates after swallowing.</p><p>Stiles stares at him, not amused.</p><p>“I don’t know, man. I don’t know the nature of your whatevership with Derek. He either wants to patrol the forest with you or fuck you, I don’t know and I don’t want to know.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatevership

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fauvistfly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fauvistfly/gifts).



> I laughed too much at "sweatpants dick" being my only tag for this.
> 
> YO, this was supposed to just be a little tumblr fic based off the very (un)specific prompt request: "sweatpants dick." As a self-professed member of the sweatpants dick fandom, I had to answer that call... and I couldn't contain my chill to keep it short enough to constitute a tumblr fic. Also the prompt-giver is a lovely, darling friend so that had something to do with it too. <3s to [Fauvistfly](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fauvistfly/pseuds/fauvistfly) :)
> 
> I HOPE YOU ENJOY THIS UNFORGIVABLE FLUFF.

They’d been dating for a little while. Kinda. More like… they’ve been exchanging shy smiles at each other a lot and the pack knew they were _something_ but didn’t comment on it and sometimes they carve out a few hours on a Saturday to go do something together. And that usually included a meal, sometimes a movie, sometimes a hike through the preserve, sometimes video games.

Sometimes they held hands, but it took awhile to get to that point. Even rarer, they kissed. Just soft, chaste brushes of their lips.

And that was enough for Stiles, mostly. It was a slow burn thing and that was okay. Those sweet, innocent kisses were enough to make him shake and grin the entire drive home.

And that’s why Stiles sort of chokes on his coffee when he reads Derek’s text on the morning before their next kinda-date: “You could stay over tonight if you wanted to.”

“What does this mean?” Stiles asks, sliding his phone across the counter toward Scott.

Scott doesn’t pause in shoveling cereal in his mouth as he picks the phone up and studies it.

“He wants you to stay over tonight,” Scott translates after swallowing.

Stiles stares at him, not amused.

“I don’t know, man. I don’t know the nature of your whatevership with Derek. He either wants to patrol the forest with you or fuck you, I don’t know and I don’t want to know.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at him. “We’ve hardly even kissed.”

“Then maybe he wants to suck face with you all night.”

Stiles considers the possibility… and finds it favorable. “Okay, but this is so weird, right?”

“You guys are into each other, so no?”

“I know, but it’s Derek.”

“Uh huh,” Scott says dismissively. He stands and shoves the textbook that had laid open and unread beside him on the counter all morning into his backpack. “Pack condoms, be safe, have fun, see you tomorrow,” he says, finishing off with a teasing grin. He hip checks Stiles as he passes. The apartment door shuts with a click behind him.

So Stiles sends a simple “okay :)” and finishes getting ready for class and does his best to put it out of mind until he’s back home and changed for the night. He packs a change of clothes and his toothbrush in his backpack while making sure to keep breathing. He opens the medicine cabinet to evaluate if he needs anything else that Derek wouldn’t have and his eyes fall on a box of condoms.

He’s not going to have sex with Derek.

Not tonight, at least.

… Maybe.

He and Derek hadn’t talked about it ever. Not directly. One late night spent sitting on the roof of Derek’s building had led to a related conversation, but they never landed on themselves. Derek had mentioned regretting falling into bed with people so easily when it wasn’t just about sex for him. Stiles had teased him about not understanding the difference between a booty call, an evil druid and true love. Derek had actually laughed. Stiles admitted that he had loved the people he had slept with, but he had never been _in love_ with them. Derek had looked at him with careful consideration, his eyes searching Stiles’ face… he had probably been listening to the slow, steady thump of Stiles’ heart and breathing in whatever emotion it was that Stiles couldn’t name himself… And that had been it.

Even then, Stiles had known what he was saying with certainty: he had never been in love with anyone he’d slept with, but that would change with Derek. And Stiles had understood what Derek had said too: he wasn’t going to touch Stiles until he knew it would be right for both of them. So if they did anything significant tonight, it would be meaningful for both of them.

He shakes his head against the thought and the nerves bubbling up in him and grabs the box before striding out of the bathroom and out of his apartment. He blasts the radio the whole way to Derek’s and parks next to where he waits, leaning against his car.

Derek looks good, as usual, in his tight jeans and deep purple henley and the leather jacket is back out for winter and it’s a beautiful thing. Stiles wraps his arms around his trim waist in greeting and Derek presses a sort-of kiss to the side of his head, hugging back. Stiles breathes in his woodsy cologne and the soft clean scent of whatever it is he puts in his hair to make it look like _that_ and pulls away reluctantly.

“Alright, date night!” Stiles says with a clap. “Let’s do this thing. Who’s driving?”

Derek rolls his eyes and casts a darling smile toward the ground. “Alright, nerd, let’s go. I’ll drive.”

**

“What’d you do today?” Stiles asks after swallowing a mouthful of noodles.

Paced the loft for fifteen minutes before sending a simple text. Cleaned everything. Twice. Bought too many snacks and breakfast options. Floated in a state of semi-panic.

“Ran errands, read, paperwork, contractor stuff,” Derek answers with a casual shrug. And that’s not a lie. He had managed to focus long enough to sign the things he needed to sign to send off to his accountant and called around for quotes for renovating the plumbing.

Stiles nods. “Contractors? For the plumbing?”

Derek is flattered that Stiles remembers, but he shouldn’t be. This is Stiles. Stiles probably would have ended up calling around for quotes on his own during a study break had Derek stalled another week on it. He laughs and blushes a little, stupidly, and nods. When he focuses his attention back on Stiles, he’s looking at him with that gentle, loving face he’s started using more and more…

“How was class?” he asks.

Stiles shrugs. “Fine. Got out of Crim early. Got an A on my last paper for English Lit. No complaints.”

Derek asks too many questions about his paper just to fuel the conversation forward to avoid the possibility of straying to their post-dinner, post-movie plans. They get into a lively argument about Hemingway and the tension melts away and Derek doesn’t even think about the newly procured box of condoms still in the plastic bag shoved in the back of the counter under the sink…

Derek pays when the bill comes even though Stiles argues about it and they leave. Stiles cuts in front of him in line at the theater and buys both of their tickets as payback. The movie is decent, Stiles is the one to initiate hand holding and Derek’s heart starts pounding when the credits roll. Stiles leans into his space and Derek catches a sour current of nerves running along with the smooth, sweet scent Stiles always throws off. Stiles presses a soft kiss to the corner of his lips and squeezes his hand. He stands and tugs at Derek with a shy smile.

“Your place?” he says, voice more steady than his heartbeat.

“Yeah, let’s go,” Derek says, allowing himself to be tugged to his feet. They hold hands all the way to the car.

“So what’s the plan?” Stiles asks, voice bright and casual. Derek reaches across the center console to squeeze his knee.

“Drinks, Netflix, whatever, sleep and breakfast in the morning?”

“Whatever, huh?” Stiles asks, lips curling into a sneaky smile. “Sounds good.”

At the next stoplight, Derek lifts his hand, curls his fingers into the soft hair behind Stiles’ ear – just to touch him, to actually give into the instinct he’s almost always fighting down. Stiles tilts his head into the touch and gently wraps his hand around his wrist all the while throwing him the soft, affectionate smile Derek’s gotten used to seeing… Stiles turns his head a little to kiss the inside of Derek’s wrist and a car horn blares behind them.

Derek clears his throat and pulls his hand away to focus back on driving.

This is all a good sign, really. It means Derek had accurately picked up on the small cues Stiles had been giving him that he wanted this to go further. Derek’s been so careful with this one. With Stiles. With himself. He wants this to matter. He’d refused to give in to how he felt about Stiles for _years_ because he had no idea what the stirring in his gut meant or if it meant anything. And as those years passed by, it became clearer to Derek that he cared for Stiles. At first, he thought he just begrudgingly cared whether he lived or died – he’d proven himself trustworthy and brave (stupidly so, sometimes) and helpful, so Derek had no reason not to care. And then he cared about his happiness and friendship. A natural next step. It wasn’t until Stiles’ reaction in Mexico when he almost died that he realized that he cared about him like this. Like he loved him. Like it killed him to see the horror on Stiles’ face and smell the sharp spike of anguish. And even then, it took them a long time to get to this.

But Stiles’ lips lingered longer every time they kissed at the end of a date. And his thumb slowly traced his when they held hands. And he was smiling like _that_ every time they looked at each other.

Derek had to tell himself that this was the natural course of progress for their _caring for each other_ _thing_. He had earned this right to be happy and to trust someone totally and to be loved by them authentically. He had grown far enough past the things that had happened to him to allow himself to be unguarded and vulnerable with this person. And this person was Stiles. If anyone had told him that five years ago, he’d have slammed their head into a wall. But now it makes sense.

**

Stiles grabs his stuff from the Jeep before they head up. He’d started an argument about _candy_ of all things just to keep the mood light, so he could play this whole thing casually. Derek is still rallying in favor of peppermint patties while Stiles makes dismissive noises as they ride the elevator up to his loft.

“You’re like 80 years old,” Stiles says. “And you just need to accept that.”

Derek scoffs as he finds his key on the ring. “You just have bad taste.”

“What does that say about you being my boyfriend? And don’t get me started on your radio presets.”

Derek shoots him a look before shouldering the sliding door open. “What about them?”

Stiles drops his backpack by the door, flops onto the couch and smirks up at him. Wait for it… wait for it…

“Boyfriend?” Derek asks, scowly face dropping. He tosses his keys onto the table and shrugs out of his jacket before sitting next to Stiles. He rests his hand on Stiles’ knee.

“Sure,” Stiles says with a shrug, blushing stupidly. When Derek leans over to kiss him on the cheek, he grins and reaches around him to get to the remote. “You better not have watched ahead without me,” he warns, navigating to Netflix.

“I didn’t,” he mumbles, the bridge of his nose settled against Stiles’ cheek, his hand still firmly in place on his knee.

“You make drinks, I’m changing into sweatpants,” Stiles announces once he finds the episode they left off on. He carefully extracts himself from Derek and hates that Derek tooootally knows that he’s nervous.

Derek’s stirring milk on the stove when Stiles gets back from changing. Before Stiles can protest the non-alcoholic nature of the hot chocolate packets sitting on the counter, Derek picks up a bottle of Baileys and wiggles it at him. And before Stiles can say anything about wanting a stiffer drink, Derek holds up a very demanding finger. “Alcohol doesn’t affect me, you’re underage and your father is a cop. Count your blessings.”

“I’m 20.”

“Underage.”

Stiles smiles at the back of his head and perches on a barstool to watch. There’s a gentle push-and-pull current around them that’s always been there, but it seems a little more apparent tonight. Stiles wants to get up and wrap his arms around Derek’s waist and hook his chin over his shoulder. He wants to pull him back against him, line their hips up just to see how they fit. He wants to figure out just how much warmer he runs by touching as much of him as possible.

Of course Stiles has wanted all of that for a long time. He’s really into this guy. It’s impressive that he’s gone this long without actively _needing_ to jump his bones, but now that this little game changer of a night has come around… there’s a heat in Stiles’ chest that he can’t quite get rid of and hasn’t been able to since the text this morning. The idea of more with Derek is really, really great.

Stiles is unabashedly picturing him with pajama bottoms slung low on his hips, his shirt shoved up to show off his abs when Derek lifts his head and turns a smug look Stiles’ direction and Stiles blushes.

“Your werewolf senses give you an unfair advantage in this relationship. And life in general.”

Derek shakes his head. “Stir this until it’s boiling, pour it in the mugs. You can put as much booze in it as you want. I’ll be right back.”

Stiles dutifully stirs and doesn’t bother to turn when he hears Derek’s soft footsteps headed back toward him. He feels Derek’s heat at his back before he reaches past him to turn the burner up a little. His hand tentatively moves from the burner’s dial to Stiles’ hip. Stiles leans back just a little to show it’s okay and he’s rewarded with a strong arm wrapped around his stomach.

Derek is softer than Stiles had anticipated. Or at least the texture of him is. Stiles turns his head to try to get a look at him, at where his ass lines up sort of perfectly with Derek’s hips, and sees soft cotton and a Nike logo.

“Dude, you have sweatpants?”

“Of course I have sweatpants.”

“I’ve never seen you in sweatpants, this is answering so many prayers.”

Derek scoffs at him, but drops a kiss on his shoulder before pulling away to grab the mugs.

They’re half an hour into their first episode of Lost before Stiles presses against Derek’s side. The spiked hot chocolate makes Stiles feel warm and happy and sort of sleepy. Derek wraps his arm around him easily, hums contently, and keeps his eyes glued to the TV. Over the course of a two whole episodes, they sink into the couch and each other without even realizing it. Stiles’ head is under Derek’s chin and his ankle is hooked around his leg.

The credits sort of break the spell and Stiles starts to pull away, his cheeks red. Derek curls his fingers around Stiles’ wrist to stop him.

“Why are you so nervous?” Derek murmurs while he plays with Stiles’ hand.

“I’m not,” Stiles murmurs back, turning to tuck his nose against Derek’s neck. He is, though, a little.

Derek lets him get away with it until the screen for the next episode pops up. “We don’t have to do anything, that’s not what this is about.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Derek challenges.

“Yeah, I do.” And then Stiles kisses him before he can say anything else. Like a real solid kiss, too. And Derek responds instantly like he’d been wanting it, so Stiles twists around until his chest is pressed against him and his knee is tucked between Derek’s legs.

Derek’s mouth tastes like chocolate and Irish cream and _good_. And he’s a good kisser. And he really knows what to do with his tongue, which just makes Stiles consider what his tongue could do elsewhere.

And that’s what he’s thinking about when Derek makes a dark, desperate sound in the back of his throat and tugs Stiles into his lap. Derek grips him by the hips and drags him as close as possible.

“God, you’re not…” Stiles gasps. “Seriously? You’re not wearing anything under those are you?” He’s only a little embarrassed by the amount of panting he’s doing. But all he can really think about is how warm Derek’s lap is and how he can feel the outline of him even though he’s barely aroused.

Derek shakes his head, eyes focused on Stiles’ lips and nothing else. Stiles shudders and can’t help but to roll his hips down into him as he leans back in.

“You’re killing me,” Derek mumbles against his lips, using his grip to keep Stiles from moving.

“Me? I’m killing you?” Stiles barely grits out, heart hammering in his chest. Derek moves to press his palm against Stiles’ chest.

“You want this?” Derek asks, his pale eyes locking on Stiles with intensity.

“Yeah.”

“You’re sure?”

“Uh, yeah, I am more than sure.”

“This isn’t too fast?” He has that Derek Hale raised-eyebrow, incredulous thing going on.

“Only if you think it is,” Stiles answers, hands sliding up from his shoulders to cup his cheeks. “I like you a lot.” And he definitely means _love_ , but that feels so heavy. He presses a soft kiss against his lips before letting his hands travel back down to his shoulders. The way Derek kisses him back tells Stiles that he understands.

There’s a marked difference in tone after that -- more slow and gentle than before. Stiles just settles in on top of him and feels like he belongs there. Derek keeps his hands on Stiles’ hips, unmoving but present, and lets Stiles set the pace. Stiles shifts a little when his bent knees start driving him crazy and Derek’s breath hitches in his throat, his mouth going slack against Stiles’ for just a second.

Stiles pulls away to ask if he’s alright, but Derek takes the pause as an opportunity to kiss his neck. He winds an arm around Stiles’ waist and moves them until Stiles is suddenly on his back with Derek over him.

Stiles lets out a small sound of shock and Derek’s eyes go wide. “I’m sorry, I didn’t--”

“Shut up,” Stiles commands, dragging him close enough so Stiles can get his mouth back on him. He keeps tugging at Derek until he feels the brunt of his weight settling over him. “Don’t treat me like I’m fragile,” Stiles mumbles, hands tight on Derek’s sides.

**

Derek murmurs and relaxes, curves fitting to curves, his head spinning. Stiles’ cheeks flush when he wriggles around until his legs comfortably rise on both sides of Derek’s hips. Derek shivers a little as Stiles’ hands slide down him, looking for the hem of his shirt. When he finds it, there’s a hot slice of skin where a waistband should be, so his hands keep moving. Derek’s sweatpants ride low on his hips, shoved down by the quick movement and Stiles’ legs.

“You’re hard,” Derek unhelpfully tells him with a wrecked voice.

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles confirms unnecessarily. He tilts his hips up into him, sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and pulls. Derek’s hips stutter against him in answer and then his hand is seeking out Stiles’ skin under his shirt. “You too,” Stiles teases.

“Uh huh.” And then Derek’s tongue finds the hollow of his throat, his teeth a slight suggestion in its wake. He drags his fingers across the warm skin of Stiles’ stomach and hooks them in his waistband.

Derek ruts down against him and Stiles lets out a desperate, strangled sound. He pulls away to look at him, to check in. His mouth is open, lips wet and swollen, cheeks flushed.

“Are you okay?” Derek asks.

Stiles nods eagerly. “Der, c’mon…”

“Here, shh,” Derek says, lifting off of him just a tad so he can pull Stiles’ sweatpants further down his hips too. He wants to touch him, skin to skin. He wants to feel his heat.

And he wants to see him, he really does. But it feels bizarre. It feels intimate in a way he has never felt with someone else. He covers Stiles with his body again, his lips instantly finding Stiles’.

“Want you, want you, want you,” Stiles murmurs like a mantra. He shoves a hand between them and tentatively reaches for Derek, who nods encouragement when he pauses. He presses his forehead against Stiles’ so he can breathe for a second.

Stiles closes his fingers around the bulge in Derek’s sweatpants first, slowly exploring the shape of him through the cotton. Derek tries his best to keep still, to let him do this however he wants. But his hand is on him and it’s almost surreal. Perfect, but surreal.

“Can I…?” he asks, bright eyes looking up into Derek’s.

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t finish.”

“You can do whatever you want,” Derek says. He knows how painfully open and vulnerable he sounded saying it and he’s okay with that. Stiles looks back at him with loving wonder and he knows he has nothing to be afraid of with this one.

Stiles tentatively slides his hand under his waistband and the first touch of his fingertip is so feather light Derek would have missed it if he weren’t so painfully aware. Stiles is watching his face carefully, looking for warning signs. Derek tilts his head down and kisses him. This isn’t just about Derek, he doesn’t want this to be methodical. Stiles takes the hint, letting his hand wrap around him in one fluid motion that makes Derek suck in a quick breath. He thrusts up into his grip exactly once before reigning himself in.

And Stiles laughs, actually, his lips curving into a smile against Derek’s cheek. “Derek,” he says. Derek’s never heard his name sound so good.

“Stiles?”

“You’re beautiful.”

Derek rolls his eyes and laughs a little too. He fucks into Stiles hand a little pointedly, trying to get Stiles back to the good stuff. Stiles hooks his free arm around Derek’s neck and drags him in for a soul-searing, breath-stealing kiss as he tugs at him all on his own.

Derek can’t help but roll his hips against him, seeking out the hot friction of Stiles’ hand and the hard planes of his hips beyond that. The scent of Stiles’ arousal is thick in the air, more obvious than before. His heartbeat is quick and the heat pouring off him is unbelievable. Derek shoves his arms under him and forces himself into a sitting position, pulling Stiles up with him. Stiles scrambles to keep his hand around him, his breath hitching in his throat at the change. From this angle, Derek can actually see him. He looks into their laps and sees Stiles’ hand wrapped around him, skin slick and red. Stiles’ sweatpants are tented, revealing the slightly curved line of his own dick.

“Let me…,” Derek starts, Stiles nodding before he needs to finish. He reaches for him pulls the fabric down just far enough to free him.

“Damn,” Stiles says after a short hiss. Derek drags him by the hips until they’re pressed together with their hands wedged between them.

“You’re beautiful,” Derek murmurs against his ear, parroting his earlier sentiment.

He wraps his hand around him and groans when Stiles starts thrusting into his grip instantly. The movement is echoed in Stiles’ efforts on Derek’s dick until he seems unable to concentrate on both tasks. Derek knocks his hand away and adjusts his hand so he can grip the both of them the best he can. Stiles groans and groans and groans against his shoulder before biting down.

Derek groans too, totally gone on how great it feels to have Stiles pressed against him, all wet heat and the incredible scent of the both of them combined intoxicating him. He could do this forever, if it weren’t for the extraordinary pressure growing in the pit of his stomach and the tell-tale ache and need taking over his whole body.

All it takes to set him over is a weak, raspy, “Derek, I’m going to…” from Stiles before he’s spilling over his hand and Stiles’ dick.

“Fuck,” Stiles grits out, hips moving faster and losing all sense of rhtyhm as he fucks into Derek’s slick hand a few more times. Derek has to bite down a weird instinctual growl when Stiles comes with a shuddering gasp, but he allows himself the glowing sense of pride when Stiles collapses against his chest.

“I cannot… wait… to see you naked,” Stiles pants out after a second. He laughs into the fabric of Derek’s shirt and Derek grins against the side of his head.

“I know the feeling,” Derek says, running his hand under the back of Stiles’ sweat-damp shirt.

They stay like that until Stiles catches his breath and pulls himself out of Derek’s lap to fall back against the opposite side of the couch. Derek watches him pull his pants back up with a satisfied smirk.

“I can’t wear these, thanks for that,” Stiles tells him, gesturing to his stained up clothes. Derek’s smirk deepens. “So I hope you have more than one pair of sweatpants to spare.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, you might have just inspired a brand new kink in me,” Derek says.

Stiles rolls his eyes and climbs forward again. “I hope so,” he whispers against Derek’s lips. He reaches into Derek’s lap and tucks him away. He pats the crotch of Derek’s sweats and pulls back. “One more episode,” Stiles says, lifting an eyebrow and reaching for the remote slowly.

“What? Are you serious?”

Stiles grins. “Yeah.”

“We should shower.”

“You shower, I’ll watch Lost.”

“No, then you’ll be ahead.”

“Then don’t shower.”

“Let’s both shower… and then watch Lost.”

“Hmm… Or let’s watch Lost and then shower.”

Derek shakes his head firmly, untangles his legs from Stiles and stands with his hands on his hips in front of him. Stiles pretends to yawn and looks back toward the TV, extending the remote around Derek. He yelps when Derek smacks the remote out of his hand and pulls him over his shoulder.

“Shower,” Derek says simply, patting Stiles on the butt while he squirms.

**  
After the shower and another episode of Lost (which they watched twice just to catch the parts they’d made out through), they crawl into bed. Stiles wraps himself around Derek and sighs against his chest.

“These are comfortable,” Stiles says, snapping the waistband of Derek’s clean sweats.

“Mmhmm,” Derek agrees sleepily, lazily pushing Stiles’ hand away.

“I’m trying to figure out if that’s because they’re yours or because they’re Nikes…”

Derek harrumphs and pulls the comforter over Stiles head.

“Seriously, who owns Nikes sweatpants? You can get decent sweatpants for like ten dollars, you know?” Stiles teases, fighting his way out from under.

“Or less.”

“Exactly. Are these better for free-balling or something?”

“I don’t know, you tell me,” Derek counters.

Stiles can’t totally make out the minute details of Derek’s face in the dark, but he knows he looks smug. Stiles takes purchase of himself, takes mental inventory of his bits and pieces…

“I mean, I have no complaints,” he settles on.

“I usually don’t either.”

“And by the way, I didn’t mention in the shower because I figured it’d be a mood killer… but ten out of ten, you look great naked,” Stiles says.

“You do too.” Derek sounds about a couple seconds away from drifting off, but Stiles isn’t done with him.

“Hey,” he says, smoothing his hand across his forehead and into his hair. He props himself up on an elbow to get a good look at his face.

“Hey,” Derek murmurs back, opening one eye and squeezing the other shut like the half-light coming in from the window is too much for him.

“I’m glad you’re my boyfriend,” Stiles says. He bites his lip to keep from smiling and to keep his nerves at bay. He knows Derek can hear his heart fluttering anyway.

Derek smiles, moves a hand from Stiles’ hip up to his chin. “Me too.”

“But we’re going to need to fix the presets in your car, man, I can’t do the smooth jazz dad music.”

Derek groans in frustration and pulls the comforter back over Stiles’ head.

“Oh and should I tell Scott we had sex, because I feel like he’ll be disappointed if we didn’t.”

“Scott is not going to be disappointed,” Derek argues. “He’s not that invested.”

“You’re probably right. Too bad we didn’t even start working on that _truly giant_ box of condoms under your sink.” (Stiles had discovered it before the shower when he was looking for shampoo. He’d teased Derek about it for about five minutes.)

“Shut up,” Derek says, monotone.

Stiles stretches up, emerging from the comforter and smiles when he sees that Derek’s smiling.

“There’s always next time,” he says softly before kissing Derek on the cheek and settling back down against him.

“And the time after that, and the time after that…” Derek murmurs, voice trailing off.  
 


End file.
